


The Fitzpatrick Grand Hotel

by dandelionpower



Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015), Poldark (TV 2015) RPF, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Character/Reader - Freeform, Danger, Dublin - Freeform, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Reader-Insert, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Third World War setting, you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 22:58:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11793249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionpower/pseuds/dandelionpower
Summary: October 2020. Dublin is watching the events of the Third World War unfold from afar. Meanwhile, you have concerns of your own. With your money problems and your involvement with the law, your only hope is your job at the Fitzpatrick Grand, one of the oldest hotels in the city. This position is compromised from the day the hotel accepts to host a film festival.  You're pretty sure the actor who's responsible for the project hates your guts. Who can blame him? You've given him every reason to despise you...





	1. The Silver Spoon

**Author's Note:**

> This is a RPF work. Please stay away if that doesn't float your boat.  
> Also, this story is only the fruit of my wild imagination. It has absolutely nothing to do with the real Aidan Turner or his real private life which I know absolutely nothing about. Same goes with the other actors who are treated here only as fictional characters. 
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you enjoy!

_Dublin, Ireland – October 13, 2020_

“You only have two vouchers left,” the cashier informs you. The look of apology on his juvenile face is too polite to be sincere.    

You stare in consternation at the three articles on the check-out counter. “Are you sure?”

He takes your phone from your hand, scans it again and comes to the same conclusion.

“Yep, only two vouchers. You’re going to have to give up one of the articles, miss.”

It confronts you with an inevitable dilemma. What do you need less between the shampoo, the pasta and the can of sauce? You can always give up the sauce and eat the pasta alone, but it’s going to be a rather depressing supper. There is the option of eating the sauce on its own, but you know you’re going to get hungry again an hour after eating. You are also out of shampoo and the idea of washing up with dish soap again isn’t appealing. _“When did my life become so shitty I have to choose between washing my hair and eating?”_ you ask yourself in mind.

A woman waiting in the queue clears her throat. You better make up your mind before she makes an unwelcome comment.

With a sigh you hand the bottle to the cashier. Your next shower will be accompanied by the acrid lemon scent of the dish soap, after all.  

The man behind the counter enters your purchase into his computer.  “What kind of naughty things a pretty girl like you could have done to be filed as a felon and have to live on war-vouchers?” he asks as he prints your receipt.

You grit your teeth. You don’t like either the question or the greasy tone in which it was said. You snatch the receipt from between his fingers and gather your meager items. “I plucked a cashier’s eyes out with a fork,” you deadpan. Ignoring his baffled stare and the judgemental one of the woman behind you, you leave the shop, fuming. Those people already see you as a nasty criminal, so why not threaten them to pluck their eyes out? It’s not like it can make your situation any worse.  

You emerge on Dame Street, welcomed by the sight of red brick and white stone in the fog of this early morning.

This is all Ethan’s fault. He has to be the one who took the last your vouchers without even asking permission. You think about sending him a text involving a lot of capital letters and exclamation points, but you decide against it at the last second. You have to get to work on an empty stomach and therefore, little energy to spare. That confrontation is going to have to wait until you get back home.

At the intersection where Dame Street becomes Lord Edward’s, you turn left and take a shortcut toward Dublin castle.

In front of the castle gate, you cross paths with a dozen soldiers, each with the strap of their automatic rifle hanging from their left shoulder. It’s a usual sight in Dublin streets these days. You don’t even flinch when you hear the first gun shots. It’s 7AM -- the curfew has already been lifted since an hour.  It’s usually the time when the soldiers start to train in the courtyard. Before the war, the castle used to be a touristic attraction. Now it has been closed to the public and transformed into a shooting range.

Three minutes later, leaving the army instructor’s shouts and the gunshots behind, you arrive at your workplace.

On Bride Street, across from Saint-Patrick’s Cathedral and Saint-Patrick’s park is one of the oldest and most expensive establishments in Dublin: the Fitzpatrick Grand Hotel. It’s known for being held by the Fitzpatrick family since the early 1800’s.

You’ve been quite lucky, as a filed person, to be able to land a job in such a prestigious place. If only you could be paid in actual money and not grocery vouchers. But since you’ve committed what’s considered a war crime under the Irish Republic’s martial law, all your purchases are controlled. Once, you tried to buy a product to unclog the drain of your kitchen sink. It was denied and the cashier had to confiscate it because it contained chemicals that could be used to build a bomb.

 _“I could have it worse,”_ you think as you climb the stairs, _“I could be enlisted and sent to the front.”_ There is only one good thing about being in the Files: they make sure you stay as far as possible from any weapon.

No one is there to pull open the heavy glass doors for you. Philip, the doorman of the last twenty years, had to be dismissed. For the whole hotel industry in Ireland and Europe, war is bad for business: the Fitzpatrick Grand is no exception.

It’s a shame, because it’s an amazing place. Setting foot in this hotel is a time-travelling experience in itself. It shoots you back 80 years ago in the blink of an eye. Walking across the tea room is like striding through a museum. The place is magnificent, like the setting of an Agatha Christie novel: marble tables, velvet chairs with flower patterns, imitations of Greek columns supporting the ceiling adorned with geometrical plaster designs. This vintage decoration has always been the Fitzpatrick’s distinctive signature: something that distinguishes it from all the other hotels in Dublin.

In fact, the interior design hasn’t been altered since the Second World War. But coming here, now, in the midst of the Third one, always gives a strange impression to the visitors. Perhaps it is for them a reminder that the world would never be able learn from its history; that the mistakes of the past have to be fatally repeated over and over again.  That, also, is bad for business. The guests that come here want to be distracted from the world and its disaster, not to be reminded of their role in said disaster.

For you, the impression of being in a space frozen in time feels more like a safe haven.

Even the employee’s formal wear has the 1940’s bellhop uniforms as an inspiration. The woolly, pencil skirt is too hot and itchy to your liking, and the collar of the vest too stiff, but this job is the only thing that keeps you from being forced to live in a government facility, and this is the last thing you want.

This morning the tearoom is almost deserted, apart from an old lady knitting in a corner and a group of army officers stuffing their faces with freshly baked scones. Their firearms are left on the thick, red carpet, like loyal dogs lying at their feet.

Haunted by the smell of the scones, you disappear behind a door labeled “staff only”.

You’ve just shoved your bag into your locker when your phone vibrates. It’s the automatic notification from the Files app. There is a message asking you where you are at the moment. You select the option “workplace” and send it right away. You get these notifications at least four times a day. Every answer you give is automatically crossed with the data from your phone’s GPS. If you’re lying on your current location or if you take too much time to reply, a message is sent to the police central. If you fail to correctly report on your activities too many times in a row, you can be sure to get a disagreeable visit from the anti-terrorist brigade. People like you are closely watched and your phone had become the equivalent of an ankle monitor.

_“This morning we learn that Conakry fell into the hands of the Capitalist United Federation. The President of Guinea surrendered after nearly a month of combat. The Allied Nations ordered a retreat of the troops toward the Mediterranean countries. The Mediterranean line constitutes the last wall protecting Europe from a potential incursion...”_

“Turn that off, it’s depressing,” you tell Lola in a grumble as you join her at the front desk.

“Well, hello yourself!” your co-worker chimes with a touch of sarcasm. “Aren’t you just a little ray of sunshine this morning?”

The news channel is playing on a large plasma screen and showing images of the Guinean capital in ruins. Your friend is leaning over the desk, watching the same exact program on her tablet.

You pull a face at her comment, but still ask to be forgiven for your tetchy behavior. “I’m sorry. I’m tired and I’m hungry. Ethan hijacked my vouchers again, probably to buy himself protein shakes.”

She tuts you, straightening the bellhop hat perched on her black hair. You always refused to wear it. It looks utterly ridiculous, but Lola decided she was going to rock the look. Admittedly, she does. “Ethan? What are you still doing with that wanker?”

“I don’t know… I don’t know anymore,” you admit. “He wasn’t always like that, you know.”

“Maybe, but now he’s a dick, and he’s taking advantage of your situation. You’d be better off without him.” Daughter of a Senegalese diplomat, Lola learnt from a young age that in politics or in life, any opinion you’re ready to fight for is worth saying out loud, and most of the time she is more than ready to fight for what come out of her mouth. You always wondered what an average discussion over a meal in the N’Diaye household sounded like. At any rate, it had to be all teeth and claws and little filter.  

Your friend’s right, though. You’ve been delaying the inevitable for a long time now, but Ethan has become a dead weight. Sure, he has brought some stability to your life for a while, but now this relationship does you more bad than good. You can’t even remember the last time you two had sex together.

_“The authorities have yet to identify the C.U.F affiliated terrorists who hid bombs in a bus station in New-Taipei, killing 67 people last month…”_

You sigh and grab the remote control to switch to the weather forecast.

_“The fog on Dublin’s area should lift later this morning and then the weather will be cloudy for the rest of the day. The traffic is fluid on the M50 highway, but drivers can expect some disturbance on the M1 around Dublin airport throughout the week, due to the construction of anti-raid shelters.”_

Chin resting in her hand, Lola is still absorbed by the international news playing on her tablet.

“Did you get any news from your sister?” you ask her.

“We chatted over skype yesterday,” she provides, eyes still glued to her tablet. “She’s posted in that training camp’s military hospital in South Africa. She couldn’t tell me much. The army is monitoring all the conversations. And you know Elena, she’s going to tell me the bare minimum so I won’t fret.”

You nod in sympathy. “At least you know she’s alright.”

“She says that she works nineteen hours shifts,” Lola continues, “and she spends most of them bathed in blood. They receive at least fifty wounded soldiers at the hospital every day. She looks exhausted.”

You wish you could say something to reassure your friend, but they would be empty words. You both know that anybody on the front line is in immediate danger.

The doors of the elevator open and an elderly gentleman comes out, dragging a huge suitcase. You hurry to leave the desk to come to his rescue. “Let me carry that for you, Mister Mendel,” you offer. He accepts with a wordless smile.  

A taxi is already waiting for him on the street. As you carry his luggage to the front doors, you hear the phone ring and Lola taking the call. “Fitzpatrick Grand Hotel, how can I help you? …yes, sir… Of course… I’m going to tell her right away.”

You wish Mr. Mendel a good day and wave at him as the cab leaves.

With the distinctive feeling that this phone call was meant for you, you walk back to the desk. Your intuition was right, since Lola confirms:  “The boss wants to see you in his office.”

You frown. “Which boss?”

“The senior version.”

“Okay… I’ll be right back.”  That kind of request is always disconcerting. What could your boss want at this hour of the day? Your shift just started. It would be surprising if there were any complaints that concern you. You rarely get any, even from the fussier of customers. “You’re going to be fine without me?” you ask your co-worker.

“Yeah. It’s not like we’re being harassed by a flock of guests right now,” she points out, gesturing to show the empty hall.

Distracted, you take your leave toward the elevator right away. Being summoned by the high authorities usually means bad news. You’re wondering if you did something wrong as you rewind and press play on the last days and weeks to try to figure out where you have erred. Nothing comes to mind. In any case, you have to pray not to be fired, because without a job, you’re going to be forced to wash up with dish soap for a very long time. Being a felon in the current political climate is already bad. Being an unemployed felon is ten times worse.

Mr. Fitzpatrick’s office is on the 8th floor, just across the one of his son: ‘Please-Call-Me-Bart’ Fitzpatrick Junior, a young and cocky businessman who’s always annoyingly flirty and inappropriate with his female employees. You always make a point of sticking to calling him “sir”, despite his insistence that you can use his first name. Lola, on the other hand, likes to call him “Polo” behind his back, since his wardrobe seems to contain nothing else but plain trousers and polo shirts of different shades.

Anyhow, it’s the older of the two Fitzpatrick men who wants to speak to you this morning, which is fortunate since you don’t like “Polo” much and generally try to have as little interaction with him as possible.

Bartley Fitzpatrick Senior is a tall man; bald and slim as a twig. Despite being in his mid-sixties, his arms are a bit too long for his body, like the ones of a teenager in the middle of a growth spurt. He greets you with an affable smile when you enter his office and close the door behind you. He invites you to sit in the massive leather armchair across his desk.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” he decides. “As you know, the number of our guests has dramatically decreased since the war forced the government to close the borders.”

 _“That’s it,”_ you think, already in cold sweat, _“he’s going to tell me he’s forced to put the axe on the staff and fire me.”_

“But someone phoned me last week with an interesting proposition,” he goes on.

“Oh,” you breathe. Maybe it’s not what you think after all. Your heart beat settles to a more comfortable pace.

“The Fitzpatrick has been offered to host a film festival.”

Of all the things you expected to hear, this isn’t one of them. “A film festival?” you repeat, slightly dumbfounded.  

“Yes, exactly. Do you know who Aidan Turner is?”

The name does ring a bell, but it doesn’t summon any facial features in your mind. “No. Should I?”

“He’s an Irish actor, a Dubliner, born and bred,” Mr. Fitzpatrick explains, “but he’s internationally known now. He’s the one who contacted me. He thinks, and I agree, that this city needs something positive in these dreadful times. That’s why he wants to organize that festival. ”Your employer intertwines his long, bony fingers and rests his hands on the desk.  “I like this project. It’s going to be good for Dublin, and also for our hotel. Rich actors are still among the few who can get an exemption passport to travel around the European Union and from America. Mr.Turner wants the Fitzpatrick to be the central point of the festivities and this is why I need you.”

You swallow down. “Me, sir?”

“Yes, you. I’ve pondered for a long time, but I see no one better than you to handle this. You have intuition, fresh ideas, and you’re good with people. I want you to be the one who will represent the Fitzpatrick in this project and assist Mr. Turner in realizing it.  He plans to make the closing ceremony a charity ball to raise funds for the deployed soldiers, and I want you to coordinate this event.”

You take a few seconds to let the information sink in. “Wow…that seems like a lot of work,” you muse out loud. His choice seems odd to you at first: why choose a mere porter like you to coordinate such an event? Without a doubt, there are other employees better suited than you are to accomplish that task. But you’re not going to argue with the good things, are you? “Does that mean I’m going to get a raise?” You ask, with an obvious note of hope in your voice. You desperately need to be allowed more grocery vouchers.

Mr. Fitzpatrick looks down at the piles of papers on his desk. You can tell what is happening in his head right now. He wants to remind you that he’s already making you a favor by keeping you as an employee despite the fact you’re filed. He’s not wrong to think that way. Very few employers would have given you a second chance after you came out of prison, but he did.

He clears his throat. “If you demonstrate that you can help Mr. Turner to his and my satisfaction, we’ll be able to discuss this raise. In the meantime, I want you to make him feel welcome when he arrives here this afternoon.”

“So soon?” you utter, surprised.

“Yes.”

You get back on your feet with a renewed determination. “I will,” you promise.  This is more than you expected. You have a way to get a raise now. The humiliation at the grocery store is nearly forgotten.   

Mr. Fitzpatrick Sr. thanks you and you are already heading for the door when he calls your name.  

“One last thing,” he adds, “I think it’d be wise if we let Mr. Turner in the dark as for-“

“The fact I’m branded a terrorist?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not planning on telling him,” you assure him.  

“Good. Let’s keep this between us.”

You wish him a good day and leave the office.

More work, more responsibilities… it’s slightly scary, but maybe it’s a good thing. If you show your employer and the penal system that you can be a good citizen, perhaps they’d even consider taking you off the Files. The only thing holding you back is the fact that helping some actor organizing an event to finance a war that has already killed too many people is against everything you stand for.

Ambivalent on how you should feel about your new work assignment, you ride the elevator back to the first floor where Lola is waiting for you with a certain amount of anticipation. “What did the boss want?” she asks you as soon as you are close enough she doesn’t have to raise her voice to question you.

You pretend to sort some printed bookings, still deep in thoughts. “He wants me to help organize a film festival,” you finally admit.

Unlike you, Lola seems excited by the news. “A film festival? Here at the Fitz? It’s such a great idea! Who is going to be there? Big names?”

“The boss only told me about the actor who’s responsible for the whole thing.” You take a pause to try to remember the name. “Aidan Turner. He’s the one I’m supposed to help.”

“Aidan Turner?” she repeats, in the same tone one would use to read the front page title of a tabloid magazine. “You mean Poldark-Aidan-Turner?  Hobbit-Aidan-Turner?” She stares at you, waiting for a reaction. “Being Human-Aidan Turner?” she insist.

“I suppose so,” you drop flatly. “Mr. Fitzpatrick says the guy’s an international star. But you seem to know who he is a lot more than I do.”

“Of course I know him!” she exclaims. “The man’s a real dish!”

There is something endearing in her display of interest, so you choose to take the piss. “What kind of dish?”

She actually takes a few seconds to ponder. “Plum pudding, I’d say…. Nah, something more melting… like dark chocolate fondant,” she concludes in a suave voice.

You smirk and lift an eyebrow in amusement. “He has not even showed up his face yet and you’re already objectifying the poor man.”  

“I’m not!” she protests.

Your conversation is briefly interrupted by a guest checking out and returning her key. The Fitzpatrick is one of the last five-stars hotels that still uses keys for its room rather than magnetic cards. It’s part of its vintage charm. The downside is that the staff team working the night shift usually don’t bother putting the keys back on the hooks identified with the right room numbers. Asserting the mess in the key cabinet with resignation, Lola kneels on the carpet behind the desk and proceeds to put the keys in order.

“You don’t seem very pleased,” she observes, glancing up at you as she works. “I thought you were ready to sell your grandmother for a chance at a promotion.”

You lean back against the desk with a sigh. “I don’t know.” Until now you couldn’t really pinpoint what is bothering you. You should be over the moon. Many other employees would be more than happy to fill your place, yet it’s you that the boss has chosen. “I think I’m even less enthralled now that you described him as a hunk,” you admit with a grimace.

“Well, he is. What’s wrong with that?”  

“I guess I can see just the kind of guy I’m going to have to put up with for the next months. I’m wary of that kind of semi-celebrities who think they are big shots. They don’t really know the reality of war and they speak in the medias and tell us what we should and shouldn’t care about. Plus, they are willing to close their eyes when the money they raise wearing a bowtie and a fake smile is used by the army to buy drone and murder more innocent civils in so-called “clean” strikes.”

You know you’re carried away, but you can’t stop the words from flowing out of your mouth. The frustration just comes out of you like a long string of fiery sentences “There is nothing about this war that is clean and I’m afraid I have nothing in common with rich playboys who are born with a silver spoon in their mouth and pretend to be interested in humanitarian causes only because it gives them a good public image. I guess it’s a good way to attract the press and see your face on a magazine cover nowadays. I doubt Aidan Turner is different from that race of self-serving attention-seeking do-gooders.”

You take a deep breath and look up, only to see that Lola, who is done sorting the keys, is now standing on her feet again and that she is staring at something behind you with wide eyes.

You turn around and notice with shame that while you were busy ranting, there was a customer waiting.

“Oh! I’m sorry, sir,” you hasten to apologize. “We didn’t hear you coming. What can I do for you today?”

The man is tall, with a broad chest and has a black duffle bag slung across one of his large shoulders. He has a tanned skin, a beard and a mane of dark curly hair gathered in a bun. Your first thought is that he’s probably an Australian refugee. A lot of them came to Dublin after the fall of the Southern hemisphere islands to the hand of the Capitalist United Federation, otherwise known as the C.U.F.

The man removes his sunglasses and pops them on his head. His eyes are of a deep hazel color and his expressive eyebrows seem stuck in a frown.

“I have a booking,” he states. He’s handsome, without a doubt, but rather cold and obviously not interested in chit chat or any other kind of polite small talk. His accent tips you off on his origins. He’s no Australian. He sounds exactly like any other Dubliner.

“Yes, of course,” you assure him with your most pleasant voice, “under what name did you make the reservation?”

“Aidan Turner.”

Hearing those two words: it’s like someone hit you with a baseball bat in the sternum. _Shit_. You feel your face fall and burn before all your blood is sucked down to your feet, leaving the rest of you completely livid.  

“I have a meeting with Mr. Fitzpatrick scheduled for this afternoon,” he says, again with that voice that manages the feat of being both icy and neutral at the same time, “but I’d like to see him now.”

“Yes, I’ll phone his office. Just give me a second.” Your hand is shaking as you reach for the phone.  Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Lola. She is frozen, at a loss of how to help you.  

You stick the antique phone between your shoulder and ear and wait as it rings at the other end of the line. You shift from foot to foot, utterly uncomfortable. Aidan Turner is waiting too, skimming through the touristic pamphlets in the plastic holder on the desk, probably to avoid having to look at you. You’re praying that your boss is busy, but when you hear his voice answer the call, your heart races to a sickly drumming. “Mr. Turner’s just arrived,” you inform him, the last syllables struggling not to tremble on your lips. “He’d like to meet you right away, if it’s convenient.”

As your boss gives you his instructions, you nod with such vigor you’ll probably end up with neck pain. Then, you hang up.

“He’s waiting for you in his office,” you announce, unable to meet Mr. Turner’s eyes either. “It’s on the 8th floor. I’ll show you the way.”

He dismisses your offer with a brisk gesture of his hand.  “No need. I’ll find my way.”

You watch him walk to the elevator with a rising nausea. That’s it. If you weren’t fired in the morning, now you definitely are.

“Do you know what the difference is between a star and a celebrity?” Lola whispers when the actor and his duffle bag disappear behind the automatic doors.  “A star is someone who wears shades in hope people won’t recognize them. A celebrity is someone who wears shades in hope people _will_ recognize them.” She’s the only one on earth who’d try a riddle or crack a joke in a moment like that. “In what category do you think he falls?”

“In the category of people who hate my guts,” you despair. “He wasn’t supposed to arrive before the afternoon. It’s not even 9AM yet! Why didn’t you tell me he was standing there?”

“I couldn’t see him, I was on the floor!” Lola reminds you. “When I noticed he was there, it was already too late and he was drilling a hole in the back of your skull with his stare.”

“Was it that bad? How much do you think he heard?”

“Judging by his expression, I’d say everything.”  

You have the urge to bite your nails until your fingers bleed. “Jeezus, why didn’t I shut my big mouth?” you scold yourself.

At that precise moment, you notice that you have completely forgotten to give him the key to his room. You open the cabinet and grab the one to room 210. “Do you think I should go and apologize?” you ask Lola, squeezing the key inside your fist. “Do you think he’d hear me out? Maybe it’s too late and he already told Mr. Fitzpatrick how much of a jerk I am!”

Lola opens her mouth to, hopefully, reassure you, but before she can speak, the phone on the desk rings.

“Answer it!” you beg her, in a sudden burst of panic.

Reluctant, she takes the call. You can hear the muffled voice of her interlocutor, but you already know it’s your employer. “Yes, sir,” she says, just before she hangs up and gives you an apologetic look.  

“Let me guess. He wants me to come up immediately,” you predict.  

“I’m afraid so.”

“Did he sound angry?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“It’s been a pleasure working with you,” you tell Lola in a dramatic manner before you head for the elevator, feeling mortified. The dish soap problem from the morning now seems so insignificant in comparison to the mess you’ve put yourself into.

If hitting your head against the wall for your foolishness could help your case in any way, you would certainly do it. You still think every word you said, you just wish Turner hadn’t heard them. Part of you is tempted to blame it on him, for having arrived earlier, but the truth is that you are the sole architect of your downfall. Given your track record, you should know better than express your opinions, political or otherwise, so freely.

You are squeezing the key to room 210 so tightly in your fist that it imprinted its pattern on the palm of your hand. All you can hope for is that behind those intense brown eyes, there is enough compassion in Aidan Turner for him to be moved by some intense grovelling. Because stomping on your ego and grovel is the only solution left.

  



	2. Red Flags

 

_DING!_

The chime of the elevator makes your heart jump. The doors slowly open. The hallway of the eighth floor is like a long snake lying in wait. At the other end,  in the red glow of the emergency exit sign,the door of your boss’s office is the gate to hell. As for the common sinner, nothing good is waiting for you on the other side.

Nervousness is pumping through your limbs, you’ve not budged for an inch. The doors start closing again. You hasten to press the button to stop the process and you gather the little courage you have to step out of the cage.

The elevator purrs and the car leaves. You should have gone down with it and hid in a broom cupboard. Now, you’re alone to fend for yourself, with no escape route apart from the stairs.

The key to Mr. Turner’s room is still in your hand, getting moist with your sweat. You quickly wipe it with a corner of your vest. It’s not by giving him a sticky, disgusting key that you are going to convince him to let you keep your job.

The thick carpeting swallows the sound of your steps and spits nothing back.

You walk to Mr. Fitzpatrick’s office like a prisoner toward the execution chamber. Turner is the one holding the axe. After what you said about him, he’s probably going to revel in the sound of your head dropping.

Anxiousness has turned your saliva into a thick paste. You knock on the door, hoping against hope that when you cross it again, you’ll still have a job.

“Come in!” It’s hard to tell if there is any underlying anger in M. Fitzpatrick’s tone.

Taking a deep breath, you push the door open. Your boss is sitting at his desk, in the same exact posture he had one hour earlier when you left his office. Now,though, there is someone else with him, in the armchair across the desk. This is someone you’d rather not have to face.

Aidan Turner rises from the chair, tugging the legs of his jeans as he goes. When he turns around and takes in the sight of you standing there, he looks stunned for a second. He was probably not expecting to have the displeasure of seeing you again so soon.  

Mr Fitzpatrick introduces you to his guest. “This is the lady I appointed to help you with your ambitious yet wonderful project,” he informs the actor.

This is the moment of truth. Now,Turner knows the rude hotel employee who badmouthed him is also the one who is going to assist him for the festival. He has only a few words to say to make you miss on the promotion opportunity, in the best case scenario. At worst, he could have you sacked here and there. You hate the fact that your fate is in his hands

He gives you a tight … smile, you suppose. His lips are sealed in an unreadable line, but after a few seconds of unease, he outstretches his hand in your direction. “I’m Aidan,” he says, in that rough, low-pitched voice that seems to be his trademark. He introduces himself even though he knows you’re well aware of who he is.

Trembling slightly, you take his hand and shake it. His grip is firm and his hand slightly colder than yours, as if it hasn’t quite warmed up since he came in from outside.  

“Pleasure to meet you,” you mumble.

How hypocritical you must sound! There is not much pleasure involved in that greeting. Hopefully you both hide it well.

You can’t complain if he’s decided to act as if nothing happened earlier, but it still keeps you on edge. His expression is so hard de decipher. But surely you couldn’t expect anything else coming from an actor. You still expect him to turn around and tell your boss: “sorry, but this won’t work.”

He does no such thing however, even if it becomes evident that he’s uncomfortable.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to drop my bag in my room and perhaps we could continue this conversation later,” he tells Mr. Fitzpatrick. “They were searching through all the luggage at the London airport and I’ve been stuck there for hours. I could really use a shower.”

“No problem at all,” Mr Fitzpatrick assures his guest with a benevolent nod of his head. “We can pick up where we left off later this afternoon.” Then, he addresses you. “Would you be so kind as to show Mr. Turner to his room, please?”

If the actor was expecting to be rid of you by asking to be dismissed, his tactic didn’t work.

“Yes, of course,” you reply, wearing the smile of the perfect hotel employee as a disguise for your reluctance. “I have the key right here,” you add, showing it to both of them.

Turner grabs his black duffel bag on the floor. “Cheers.”

“This will give you two an opportunity to get better acquainted,” Mr. Fitzpatrick says just before Turner follows you out of the office.

You gulp, wish your boss a good day and close his door.

The walk down the corridor is no less stressful. You keep looking down at your shoes and the reflection of the ceiling on their perfectly shiny tips. Turner’s own combat boots pop into your field of sight every time he takes one long stride by your side, but you don’t have the courage to look at his face.  He doesn’t seem interested in interacting either, which is both reassuring and scary.

It’s only when you reach the elevator that you realize this is probably going to be the most awkward ride of your entire life.

You press the button to call the car. Turner is waiting, standing behind you and the 8th floor is so silent you can hear him breathe.

It takes way longer than usual for the car to arrive, it seems. This is the hour when most of the guests check out. It must be busy downstairs.

You tap your heels together to distract yourself. You’re like Dorothy wishing to go back to Kansas. In truth, you’d rather be anywhere else than here. Kansas would do. Sadly, this isn’t Oz and you have no magic powers of teleportation.

When the car shows up and the doors open, you realize for the first time how small it is. You’ve ridden that elevator along with ten more people in the past, but now, as Turner and you take place in it, it suddenly feels like a cramped space.

You pray the elevator won’t break down, trapping you together.  Fortunately, you’re not in a comedy movie, so it’s not bound to happen.

There is no music in the Fitzpatrick’s elevators, and the silence is heavy. You give your cellmate a sidelong glance. He’s staring at the numbers over the door.  

The Files’ notification chimes on your phone. Turner doesn’t seem to pay any attention to it, probably thinking you received a text. The less he knows the better it is.

You were not supposed to get another notification until noon, but perhaps with the intensifications of combats in Africa, the political circumstances probably triggered an increase in the control of political criminals. For once, it’s a welcomed distraction. You check your phone and hit the “workplace” option.

You’re slipping the phone back in your vest pocket when the elevator reaches the second floor.

This time, Turner distances you and he’s in front of his room before you get to it. The next steps would be for you to unlock the room, give him the key and let him in, but something holds you back. It’s now or never.   

You muster the strength to meet his eyes. His irises are more golden than they are hazel. Gold: like the cursed loots of the old Viking myths. It’s not an innocent color shade.

You clear your throat. “I’m really sorry, you know, for what I said earlier in the lobby. I didn’t really mean it.”

He takes his time to detail you, with this air of careful nonchalance he’s been displaying earlier in the office. His answer, though, is without ambiguity. “I do think you meant every word. What you didn’t mean was for me to hear.”

Heat creeps to your cheeks. “Still…you could have me fired and you didn’t. Thank you for not telling my boss. This job means a lot to me.”

“No need to thank me,” he states. “You’re the one who’s prejudiced. I’m not. You think I’m a douchebag, but I don’t know you yet, so I have no reason to try and sabotage your life.” He hoists the straps of his bag higher on his shoulder. “Besides, between you and I, I think you’re the one who’s bound to be unhappy with this arrangement. You’re stuck with me, working for a cause you don’t believe in.”

The burn on your cheek turns into fire and once again, you can’t refrain from speaking your mind. “I don’t think giving money to those who hold the guns is going to bring us peace!”

He, on the other side, keeps his cool. “And that’s your right to think that way, but I believe that the soldiers deserve health care and a good veteran pension if they ever get out of the hell we’ve put them in. And in order to achieve that, I have a film festival to organize, and if you can’t help me with that, maybe I should ask Mr. Fitzpatrick to find someone else from his staff to collaborate with me.”

Your first intention was to grovel and now you find yourself starting a debate with him. You have to cut it short before it turns into a full-flesh argument. “No,” you breathe as you avert your eyes, the embodiment of repentance. “I apologize once more for my brash behavior and I hope you’ll give me a second chance. I know this hotel like the back of my hand and I can be useful to you. I’ll do my best to put my political convictions aside.”

When you look back at him, there is a hint of amusement at the corner of his lips. His frank and open gaze is unnerving. “Something tells me this professional relationship,” he gestures to emphasize the space between you two, “is going to be somewhat of a challenge. But I’m always up for a challenge.”

Not knowing how to react or what to say, you unlock the room’s door.

“Have a great stay at the Fitzpatrick Grand, Mr. Turner,” you tell him, handing the key over.

“I’m sure I will,” he says when his fingers meet yours and pluck the key from them. “And from now on, you can call me ‘Aidan’… ‘Mr. Turner’ is my father.”

“Sure,” you assure him, unexpectedly flustered.  

“Our first committee meeting will be tomorrow at 8PM in the tea room. Good day to you.”

***

“What do you mean ‘he didn’t say anything’?” Lola presses you, her right eyebrow raised. “He must have said something. I’m sure he didn’t stand there, mute as a dead fish.”

You don’t answer right away because your own mouth is full of delicious, buttery scones. After a stressful half-day of work on an empty stomach, they taste like they’ve been baked by the angels themselves.  It’s not far from the truth, actually, because Mairenn, the hotel chef, with her long blond locks and bright blue eyes, resembles one of those angels at the top of Christmas trees. She is usually not allowed to give food away, but these scones were leftovers from the breakfast and she knows your situation, so she often smuggles a bite for you when she can.

“Some words came out of him, of course,” you provide in order to feed Lola’s insatiable curiosity. “What I mean is that he didn’t tell Fitzpatrick Senior anything about our disastrous encounter. At first, he acted like nothing had happened.”

“At first?” Mairenn repeats. She was busy reviewing the menu for the next week, but she stopped working to join the conversation, her elbows propped on the large kitchen counter around which you three are sitting. The arrival of Aidan Turner is already a hot topic amongst the hotel staff. You’ve met the man and you’re not sure to understand what the whole fuss is about.   

“Well, when we were alone at the door of his room, he called me ‘prejudiced’ and sort of told me off for thinking he’s a douchebag, but still… any sane person would have refused to work with me after what I said about him and he didn’t…”

Lola’s manicured fingernails drum on the stainless steel surface. “Hm. That’s weird.”

You concur. His reaction makes little sense.

‘Maybe he fancies you,” Maireen speculates.  

You shake your head with a snigger. “Nah. I doubt it has anything to do with something so puerile.”

For once, Lola is on your side. “Yeah, I agree.”

“Thank you.”  

You scrap the rest of raspberry jam from the jar with your butter knife and spread it on the last bit of scone, hoping that the interrogatory is over. You’d like to go on with the rest of your day not thinking about Aidan Turner more than you have to. Knowing Lola, it would probably be too much to ask, though.

Your Senegalese friend plucks a crumb from the side of your plate and pops it into her mouth. “So, do you still think he’s a douche?”

You purse your lips. “The jury’s still out on that one.”

“Lola says he’s even more eatable in person. Is it true?” Maireen inquires.  

“I don’t know if he’s eatable, but personally, I’m full, thanks to your wonderful cooking,” you cleverly change subject. “Now, what I need is a stiff drink. Are you girls free tonight? Maybe I can pry a couple Euros from Ethan since he’s taken my last grocery vouchers.”

“Nah, can’t make it,” Maireen replies with an apologetic smile. “I have a date.”  

‘Lucky you,” Lola sighs.    

“Lola?” you try.   

“Sorry, darling. I can’t either. I have claustro-class tonight.”

“Sucks,” you sympathize.  

“Yeah.”

You don’t envy her at all. Fortunately, you don’t have to follow those mandatory programs for people who suffer from claustrophobia, to help them control their fear. The government established the class programs at the beginning of the war, when they realized that someone panicking in a packed anti-raid shelter could cause a lot of chaos.

“Maybe I’m going to go out on my own,” you ponder, “celebrate the fact I still have a job.”

“What you should do is go home and break up with Ethan,” Lola advises.  

You throw a look at your wrist watch. Conveniently enough, it’s half past noon already. “Seems like the break’s over. Let’s go back to work.”  

***

Your only wish, for the five and a half hours that is left to your shift, is to put the events of the morning behind you. You are grateful that Lola seems to understand it and lays off. She doesn’t mention anything about it for the rest of the afternoon.

The trepidation doesn’t leave you however, no matter how hard you try. Every time the elevator doors open, you shoot a glance toward them, dreading to be confronted with the actor and make it awkward again.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when your work shift ends at 6 o’clock and you’ve managed not to cross path with him again. It’s childish, since you have a meeting with him the next day. You won’t be able to avoid him forever. But until then, you’re holding on to your peace of mind and won’t let go.

You wave at Lola as she disappears in a crowded bus on New Street and you resume your walk across Temple Bar neighborhood. The weather forecast said the fog would lift during the day, but, as the sun sets, Dublin bay exhales some more mist though the River Liffey and in the streets.

After you skirted the imposing figure of Christchurch cathedral, you take a turn to the left and two minutes later, you arrive home.

Your apartment is at 28 Fishamble Street, only a stone’s throw away from the Gaiety School of Acting and just above a pet store called Reptile Haven.  

You were already living there for two years before the beginning of the war. The only reason you’ve been able to keep your flat when you went to prison was because Ethan moved in and kept it in relative order.

Speaking about Ethan, you can hear his animalistic grunts through the door as you search for your keys in your purse. You’re worn out and part of you is glad to be home, but spending an evening with your boyfriend is not that rejoicing.

Ethan is in the middle of a session of bench press on the floor of the living room. He knows you just came in, but he takes his time to finish his series before even looking your way. Only then does he put the bar back on the rack.  “Hey,” he says flatly, wiping his face with the front of his shirt and rising from the floor. He probably thinks that this acknowledgement relieves him from having to ask you about your day and actually listening to the answer.   

“Hey,” you reply in the same tone. The thing is that you’re not interested in his day either. You know he spent it flexing his muscles in front of the mirror.

His blue eyes that you used to find seductive now seem like the ones of a dead bull.

“What’s for supper?” he enquires.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? I thought you were going to the store this morning?”

You take a deep breath but it’s too late to swallow back the anger that twists your tongue and turns it into a viper’s. “I did, but I couldn’t buy much since I only had two vouchers left - not enough to buy supper for two. Isn’t that weird?” you hiss. “I wonder where the vouchers disappeared! I could swear I had more than two.”

“Yeah, I took some of them,” he admits, like it’s no big deal. “I was out of cash.”  

You grit your teeth. “You agreed to be my guarantor so I wouldn’t have to live in a government facility when I came out of prison, but it doesn’t allow you to steal the little I earn at the hotel for you own stuff!”

“Babe! Babe… relax,” he tries to appease you, adopting the stance of the reasonable alpha male. “I’m not stealing. I told you I would repay you.”

Instead of making you calmer, it just infuriates you.He’s taking you for an idiot.

“You always promise me that, but you never fucking do! I’m tired of you stealing my money, squatting my apartment, making me waste my time! Can’t you just find yourself a job?!”

“You know I don’t have time for a job with my training!” he protests.

“You’re completely delusional, Ethan! They refused to let you enroll in the elite troops because you failed the psychological tests! They don’t want you: end of story! You’ll never get to be a war intelligence agent, no matter how big your biceps are!”

He steps toward you. “But you like my biceps…”

His attempt at seduction is completely lost on you. You step back so he won’t come any closer. “I’d rather have a man with a spine.”

He crosses his arms. “Wow! Since when did you become such a bitch?”

“You can call me a bitch all you want, I don’t care anymore! I want you out of here, out of my life!” You should have realized it earlier, but he’s a parasite, nothing more. It’s clear as day now. You wonder how come you ever could have fallen for him in the first place. “I give you until tomorrow morning to pack your stuff,,” you decide, not leaving him any room for protest. “Your friend Paddy is always keen on inviting you to one of his stupid drinking parties. I’m sure you can crash at his flat for a while.”

You expect Ethan to explode in rage or to try to beg for a second chance. In any case, you didn’t see his reaction coming.  

He scoffs. “You can’t kick me out.”

“How come? This is my apartment!”

The smug smile that stretches his baby-face is a bad omen. “No longer,” he states. “When you went to prison, you entrusted me with all of your properties. I had every right to have it transferred under my name and I did! So this is my home, now. If you don’t want to be with me anymore, honey, that’s fine, but you are the one who is going to have to move out.”

It’s like a slap in the face that leaves you speechless and stunned for one long minute.

Your first reaction, after the initial shock, is to demand proof.

He leaves to another room to fetch the propriety transfer contract, like a rooster swaggering across the chicken coop…. or rather like a cock, in his case. He’s the one in control, now. That knowledge strokes his ego.

The contract, hidden from you until now, can’t be any clearer. Your apartment and everything in it is now his propriety. There is absolutely nothing you can do. Before you went to prison, you signed papers that made him the custodian of your properties for the time you were incarcerated. You had never thought he was capable of such betrayal. You should have known better. Now it’s too late.

You throw the pile of paper in his face. You storm to what used to be your bedroom and start shoving clothes and various personal items into a suitcase. You’re not exactly thinking this through. All you want is just get out of here. It’s already painful enough to have lost your home, you’re not going to allow Ethan to keep you here, under his yoke.

He’s leaning in the doorway, still that cocksure little smirk on his face. “You don’t have to turn it into a drama,” he tells you. “I won, baby, that’s all. Don’t be such a sore loser.”

“You’re the loser,” you spit. “I tried to be patient with you! I supported you financially! I trusted you! All you did was abusing of that trust!”

You rush to the door and slam it shut, not caring if you break his nose in the process.  

You should have been more aware of all the red flags. Ethan Cleary never said he loved you: not once. He only replied “me too” or “I know” in response to your own endearments. In hindsight, he probably never loved you at all. The only thing he loved was himself. He found you in a moment of your life when you were vulnerable and took advantage of that. Your weakness was to desire stability and company: a fatal human flaw. Never, you swear, you will succumb again to the desire for love and security and let another man get the upper hand.

Ethan’s right, though. In the end he has won everything: your love, your body, your money, your home. For him, it was nothing but a game. He snapped up the award and all you’re left with is spite and one suitcase full of rumpled clothes.

It truly strikes you that you have nowhere to go when you find yourself outside your flat, on the sidewalk, clutching the handle of your suitcase so hard your knuckles turns white.

You have friends and coworkers who would maybe accept to let you stay at their home for a while… but you have no money to speak of. You won’t be able to rent anything on your own for God knows how long… probably not until the end of this stupid war. You don’t want to be a burden to any of your friends or their families. You have a high potential of becoming a problem for them. You’re still on probation, with your name written with letters of blood in the government files.

There is always the option of reporting yourself as homeless to your probation officer, but it would mean being sent to one of the facilities in the North of the country. It’s the last place where you wish to end up. Even the Irish press, that usually supports the government’s war initiatives, calls them “prisoner camps”.

There is only one solution left: the Fitzpatrick.

Overthinking is the enemy of initiative. You suppress a shudder and start walking back to the hotel. It’s drizzling outside now and tiny drops of rain clings to the wool of your bellhop uniform.

The majority of the buildings along Fishamble Street are only four stories high, and since, they are towering over you like giants, ready to crumble over your head.

It’s early in the evening but Temple Bar streets are crowded with pub-goers and tourists. You have the habit to stride through the alleyways with confidence, but tonight, you’re on hostile territory: a boat without an anchor drifting into the unknown.

Even the sparse trees in Saint-Patrick’s park spread unsettling shadows across the gray brick path as you pass by.

The facade of the hotel finally emerges from the night like the cliffs of a familiar island. The lump in your throat eases a notch.

You don’t have the money to pay for a room, not even for one night, but a plan is hatching in your mind.

The fact Mr. Fitzpatrick has dismissed the doorman makes it easier for you to enter without raising suspicion. Once you’re inside, it’s going to be another story.

You throw a quick look at your watch. At this time of the evening, Barrie, the night security guard just arrives at work and he’s not in his office checking the cameras yet. He’s more likely making himself a coffee in the employee’s lounge.

You have to act quickly before the window of opportunity snaps shut.

A taxi stops and a woman steps out. The cabby helps her pull a red suitcase out of the trunk. This is perfect. While the concierge at the front desk is busy with her, neither will be paying attention to you.

You enter the hotel lobby two carefully-timed minutes after the woman with the red suitcase. Just as you hoped, she and the concierge are both absorbed by a brochure. The employee is showing her the way to the Olympia Theater on a map.

You manage to slip away into the elevator, incognito. You have to find a place to hide your suitcase, which is a pretty suspicious item for you to carry here, even more so when you are not supposed to be at work.

Just to emphasize that fact, your phone chimes with a Files notification. There is no point in lying. They can trace your phone anyway. But they don’t know your work schedule. You could have chosen to go back to work tonight, to earn extra groceries vouchers or to replace somebody. You hit the “workplace” option just as you arrive in the basement of the hotel.

The boiler room seems to you like the best place to dispose of the evidence of your homelessness, at least for the time being, until you can find another, more secure place.

You take some pajama pants, a used t-shirt and some clean underwear from your luggage. You shove them into the large pockets of your bellhop blazer. When you’re done, you stash the suitcase behind a row of water heaters.

You have to concoct a good story to explain your presence at the hotel. What you said to Turner earlier is true: you know the hotel like the back of your hand. This could play in your favor, when nothing else does.

You take one of your earrings off and hide it into your blazer pocket along with your underwear.

The woman with the red suitcase is gone. The lobby is empty, except from Catrina, the concierge, yawning behind the front desk. It’s like your day is playing on repeat.

When she sees you coming, Catrina waves, slightly confused.

“Hey, can I ask you a favor?” you cut in before she can ask any question. You point at your right ear. “I lost my earring during my shift this morning. I’m pretty sure it fell in the supply room on the second floor. Would you mind lending me the master key?”

“Yeah, sure,” she replies, opening the key cabinet and handing you the desired item.

“Thank you so much. It’s a pair my grandmother gave me when I was little and it has a great sentimental value.”

It’s a lie and you would have to scrub it up a little to make it a white one, but you can’t get yourself to care.

You have little time left before Barrie sits in front of his computer to watch the surveillance cameras.

Once on the second floor, you jog up to the door of room 211 and unlock it with the master key.

In fact, room 211 doesn’t exist. It’s a supply room which door has been given a number to blend in its surroundings. It has become a running gag amongst the hotel employees. When a customer is being whiny or just plain disagreeable, you often say as a joke that you’re going to “put them in room 211.” Ironically, you plan on making it yours.

You stay in the supply room long enough for your story of missing earring to be believable and when you leave, a few minutes later, you conveniently forget to lock the door behind you.

Your heart is like a jackhammer on concrete. The universe is on your side so far, but it could all fall overboard in an instant.

All you want is a safe place to sleep until your next work shift at seven in the morning. Squatting room 211 is not a long term solution. In the morning, you’ll be able to assess your situation and find a more viable accommodation. In the meantime, you’re the mouse in the Fitzpatrick’ walls.

“So, did you find it?” Catrina wonders.

“Yes!” you reply, triumphant as you show her the piece of jewellery. “It was stuck in the carpet fibers.”

“Aw, I’m happy for you.”

You slip the master key across the desk and she takes it back.

You engage in a bit of chit chat, but it’s a calculated move on your part. You speak until Barrie, the security guard, gets out of his office and crosses the lobby, coffee in hand. “Good night, ladies,” he wishes you both, with a nod of his head and a smile on his jovial face.

He heads to the tearoom and the bar section, where a few customers are sipping champagne. It gives you about ten minutes, while he is making the rounds on the ground floor, to get to the now unlocked room 211, unseen.

The problem now is to distract Catrina so she won’t notice that you’re going to the upper floor again. As you comment on how unreliable the weather forecast is these days, even worse than usual in a country like Ireland when bright sun can turn into rain in a heartbeat, you look around in search for anything that could help your cause.  

Fortunately enough, the phone rings just at this moment.

She excuses herself to take the call. You mouth a “goodbye” and wave at her. The second she opens the computer to check a booking, you hasten to leave her field of sight and ge to the staircase.

You were lucky tonight… as lucky as one can be when they learn they have no place to live.  

In the safety of the storeroom, you lock the door and allow yourself to breathe again. You change into the t-shirt and pajama pants.

On the high shelves around you are boxes full of various kinds of hotel supplies: bathroom slippers, linen, toilet paper, bath robes, floor mats, spare air dryers, vanity kits and those awful flowery scented candles with the distinctive FG logo of the Fitzpatrick.

The bathrobes, linen and floor mats are still wrapped in plastic, but several of them piled on the floor makes a decent mattress. You even find a couple pillows in one of the boxes. It’s far from ideal, but it’ll have to do. Maybe, tomorrow, if you have to stay here another night, you’ll find a way to sneak into a proper room….with a real bed and a shower.

You could use your phone and the hotel’s WiFi as entertainment as you wait for sleep to find you, but instead, you zone out. You’ve turned the lights off and your senses are heightened by the darkness surrounding you. You can perceive all the little sounds and noises coming from the hotel: the creakings of the building’s skeleton, the footsteps...

Room 212 is empty, but you can hear someone’s voice, a man’s voice, coming from room 210. The walls are thinner than they appear.

That’s when it hits you. It’s Aidan Turner who’s in that room.

He’s speaking on the phone… or to himself. That bit isn’t clear. Perhaps he’s talking to a girlfriend… or to his agent. Or maybe he’s learning lines out loud. You suppose that’s what actors do.

You can’t make out words or the exact tone in which they are said. The walls are not that thin after all.

Exhausted, your mind progressively fills with fog, just like the one that covers Dublin city tonight.

Turner’s voice is a soothing one, you discover, somehow similar to waves crashing on the cliffs of County Kerry. You didn’t mean to, but after an hour or so, you fall asleep to its lulling effect.


End file.
